


we are like young volcanoes

by crucios



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band), One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 17:50:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crucios/pseuds/crucios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That's the killer. There’re only <i>seven days in a week</i> and Harry Styles who is Not His Boyfriend is taking up five of them. Christ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we are like young volcanoes

**Author's Note:**

> so, not twenty minutes after i realised i was IN TOO FUCKING DEEP with 5S0S i said: “what’s betting i’m writing harry/michael by next week!” and… HERE I AM. following that, @halloweennoir on twitter asked for artist!michael with harry/michael and paint!sex and also some zayn/Louis thrown in and i… wrote it? sort of. it kind of turned into au where michael's doing art in sixth form and harry's his not-boyfriend. like, that's basically it but somehow they had a lot more feelings than i thought.
> 
> uh, until i nicked a fall out boy lyric for the title, this was just called: THIS IS RIDICULOUS, read into that what you will.
> 
> this is also dedicated to tress30 who i still blame for this spiral and who also read over this for me and was super great and lovely about it. <33333 thanks also to ari who looked it over for me and made sure michael didn’t sound terribly _not_ aussie! and finally as always, to the ever-wonderful plasticskies for the fab and entertaining beta and general loveliness  <33333 AND to @halloweennoir for writing the prompt in the first place.

*

_A penny for your thoughts but a dollar for your insight_  
 _or a fortune for your disaster_  
 _I’m just a painter and I’m drawing a blank”_  
  
—      Don’t You Know Who I Think I Am // Fall Out Boy

*

Michael’s a little bit grateful that Harry offered up his living room for the night; he’s knee deep in twenty-five different colours (mostly blue) of paint – not quite  _literally_  but it’s almost there – and he knows had he pulled this shit at home, his mother would have had his head and chucked the rest of his body to the streets to be swept up by one of those street-cleaner things. His mother doesn’t fucking mess about.

Michael had complained loudly in Topman – while shoe-shopping with Harry – the day before that his house is full of  _carpets_  and no matter how many old and bobbly bed sheets he puts down, paint always seems to seep through  _somehow_. He hadn’t even been hinting, honestly, not even when he’d waxed poetic about the lighting in Harry and Louis’ flat, and how his mum is always buying  _eco-friendly light bulbs_ , which he concedes is probably, like, great for the environment and global warming and shit, but the energy-efficient light is pretty fucking hopeless when he’s trying to paint a mountain of art coursework. Harry had put down the pair of brown –  _ugly_ , Michael thought – shoes he’d been fawning over and said with a frown, “Just do it at mine and Louis’, then.”

So. Here he is.

The lighting is really great, is the thing; it’s so fucking great that Michael can  _feel_  his cheeks hot up under the brightness, so it’s probably not going to win any awards for decreasing the planet’s temperature or whatever. Or, actually, maybe the hot-cheek thing is to do with the couple bottles of beer he’d nabbed from Harry and Louis’ fridge. He’ll never really know.

He squints his eyes and tilts his head a little to the left, away from the white-light, and peers scrutinisingly at the piece in front of him. It’s good; swirling dark colours blending into a night sky. Michael wouldn’t quite call himself modest but he knows Harry will roll his eyes at  _good_  and tell him that it’s fucking incredible because Harry’s  _Harry_ : all bright smiles and sweeping niceties. Michael likes that about him a lot, even if it does make arguing with him really really difficult.

It makes not falling in love with him even  _more_  difficult.

He’s swilling the matted paintbrush in a mug – with a moustache on the side – of cloudy paint-water that he hasn’t bothered to change in about two hours, when his phone buzzes with a text. He wipes his dark-blue-and-grey stained hands on his t-shirt – Harry’s t-shirt, actually? It’s one of the ones he can’t remember who even claims, like, _rightful ownership_ to it anymore – and digs his phone out of his pocket, smudging paint on the screen as he unlocks it.

**Ash:**  
 _Harrrry missees your cute lilll angelface  xxxxx ;)x_

Michael giggles to himself like the fucking loser he totally is and types back.

_You mean my emoooo face??? ;) xxx_

He snaps a pic of himself looking all  _tortured-artist_  – or at least that’s what he was going for anyway but he’s not really all that tortured, honestly – and shoves his phone back in his pocket. He huffs out a long worn-out breath and stares for a second at the paintbrush in the mug, then forgoes the Important Coursework to wander into the kitchen and grab another beer: priorities. It’s only when he stands up that he realises he feels just a bit wobbly; that’d be the previous beers kicking in, then.

It really fucking sucks, he thinks, that he’s sitting in his not-boyfriend’s flat and getting drunk  _alone_ while all his mates are out getting hammered and dancing badly to terrible music in clubs.

Harry and Ashton (with backup support in the shape of Louis and Zayn) had tried valiantly to badger Michael into to coming out with them earlier, when he’d been approximately a third of the way through his first piece; there had been a lot of yelling, “Let’s get smashed!” and other general shouty-drunk things when they weren’t even  _drunk yet_.  Ashton even sing-songed in horrific high-pitch, “We’re gonna paint the town!” at some point. Like that was supposed to be the deciding argument or something.

His friends are mean idiots, mostly.

It’s not like Michael hadn’t  _wanted_  to go – sure, he’s still underage and whatever, but he has a fake I.D. from that sketchy guy Luke knows; he doesn’t ask – but the  _mountain of coursework_  was glaring at him all judgy and fun-killing like so he’d opted for the Responsible Option. He doesn’t like much responsibility in his life, but his art’s pretty important to him. Almost as important as getting the band up and running and  _going somewhere_.

He pulls the fridge door open, fingers smudging faded dark-blues onto the shiny white, and grabs another bottle of beer. His phone buzzes again and he leans back against the counter lazily, feeling a little lightheaded and yeah, definitely a bit tipsy, and pulls it out exasperatedly – he just wants a fucking  _drink_  – half expecting a sarcastic reply from Ashton; it’s Harry’s name he reads though.

**Harry:**  
 _You look hot with paint in your hairrrrr.. :P xxxxx_

Michael frowns and tugs at his blue fringe a bit, trying to squint a look at it; there are flecks of yellow and white scattered across that he must have inadvertently flicked in when he was trying to master painting fucking  _stars_  (let’s just say, he’s no Van Gogh). He grins at the text though, still tugging at the drying bits of crumbly paint. He shoots off a reply—

_Hot like my mooooves ;) xxxx_

—and then twists off the cap of the bottle with his teeth, a trick he’d painstakingly learnt from Niall not at all that long ago; Calum and Luke hadn’t been able to master it and had whinged a lot about  _broken teeth_ ; Ashton had it down on the first go, obviously. Fucking show off.

Ashton was the one who’d – by extension anyway – brought Harry into Michael’s life. He likes to show off about that one, too.

Ashton’s the sort of person who knows  _everyone_ _; h_ e’s the sort of person who can breeze from group to group and they all just… accept him, like he was there all a-fucking-long. He’s always been that way, as far back as Michael can remember anyway. He knows all the cool bouncers in the clubs in town, he knows that dude Conor (who’s apparently getting pretty fucking big on the music scene now; friends in high places and all that, Michael thinks). In fact, Michael’s pretty sure he knows just about  _everyone_  at their college, too. So when Ashton had introduced the boys to his friend Zayn and by extension his sort-of-boyfriend  _Louis_ , it was just another introduction to another one of Ashton’s ten thousand friends. Michael didn’t wager much on ever seeing them again unless, like, off their faces in a club somewhere.

Until, at least, Louis had invited them to his flat for a Fifa tournament out of blue, and then, _by extension_ , Ashton had sort of introduced Michael to Louis’ flatmate-slash-bff Harry and—

It all gets a bit hazy and nebulous after that, but Michael’s pretty sure that at some point not all that long after, they all wound up being… really ace friends? He’s not sure when the line got crossed, honestly; he just knows that somehow they’ve formed a bizarre as fuck clique-of-all-ages and every new weekend brings more drunken shenanigans and, like, well in Michael’s case, Adventures With Harry Styles. (He only really calls it that in his head.)

The line between him and Harry, Michael’s even  _less_  sure about when that one was crossed.

When Michael’s phone goes off again, just as he’s bothering to unsteadily shuffle back through to the living room and… do more work, he supposes, it’s not Harry flashing up.

**Ash:**  
 _Criiiiiiinge mate criiiinge. Hazza wants me to tell you to come ooooouuuuttt!! Out drinking out not out gay out you did that alreaddy Xxxxx_

**Luke:**  
 _How comes I don’t get your hot mooooooves??? :( Xxx_

Michael bursts out a laugh and a bit inelegantly perches himself back on his stool, staring at the painting; he feels like something’s missing but he can’t fucking figure it out and he’s getting drunker. He necks down some beer and types out a reply to Luke.

_Get me more drunk and you miiight!! ;)xx_

His phone flashes with Harry’s name not a minute later.

**Harry:**  
 _Heyyyyyyyyyyyyyy :( your hot mooooves are mine xxxx_

Michael rolls his eyes with a grin, throwing back some more beer. He can’t figure out whether Harry’s fake-upset or  _actually_  upset, it’s all a bit vague and confusing when it comes down to… them. Mostly because there  _is_  no them, or at least they’ve never put a label on it. Michael refers to it as not-boyfriends; they’re definitely  _not_  actual boyfriends, but they’re not not boyfriends either, he thinks. Something like that. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, his brain drowning in a whirlpool of  _nots_ , and beer. Probably beer, too—he briefly wonders what actual drowning in beer would be like. That might be cool.

To anyone else they’d be dating, is the thing. That’s  _the_   _thing_. It’s the thing that Michael thinks about but tries defiantly not to. But it’s pretty fucking hard when Harry’s dragging him out of bed at midday on a Sunday for a walk along the bloody river; or their shoe-shopping turns to dinner turns to Michael teaching Harry guitar; or Harry lets Michael haul him around art galleries for  _five actual hours_.

Or he wakes up with Harry moulded to his back approximately five days a week. That’s the killer. There’re only  _seven days in a week_  and Harry Styles who is Not His Boyfriend is taking up five of them. Christ.

Michael swigs down the rest of his beer and picks up his paintbrush, because he has  _important coursework_  to do and he’s most certainly not going to let Harry Styles not being his fucking boyfriend make him fail his A-Level. No way José. He swashes it around the (still-not-fresh) water in frustration, watching the tranquil almost-blackness ripple outwards with the sort of fascination that only really comes with being a certain level of  _dumb_ _drunk_ , and then dips it tentatively back into the not-quite-midnight-but-definitely-not-royal blue paint; probably something that would be called Parisian Skies or some equally stupidly named _hipster_ colour in one of those decorating leaflet-things.

He’s  _just_  sticking his tongue out in concentration and squinting his eyes through his semi-blurred, beer-hazy vision so he can figure out what’s missing from the bloody painting, when his phone shrieks out Blink-182’s  _Feeling This_.

“Shit,” he says loudly, leaping up so fast that he knocks the blackened misty water crashing onto Harry and Louis’ (thankfully  _laminate_ ) floor. He tries hard not to notice that the moustache on the Moustache Mug has partly chipped off because wowee that’s a level of  _total panic_  he’s really not willing to deal with; Harry’s pretty fond of that mug.

Instead he shuffles his hand into his pocket for his phone. Louis’ name is flashing accompanied by a  _picture of him_  with his and Harry’s hamster – Captain America – on his shoulder; Michael would love to know where the fuck that came from—he makes a mental note to ask Harry, maybe sometime after he asks about the Not Boyfriends vs. Boyfriends thing so he can use it as a buffer.

“Hang on,” Louis shouts when Michael finally stops being confused by the picture long enough to hit  _answer_.

“What—”

“Hang on,” Louis shouts again,  _louder_ , like it will make the deafening music in the background quieter by sheer drunken belief. It really doesn’t. “Harry wants you but I’ve lost him!”

Michael grabs onto the stool to steady himself a bit and frowns, trying to puff his stupid painty fringe out of his eyes. “Lost him  _where_?”

“Well,” Louis says, with a certain profoundness, “if I knew that, dear Michael, he wouldn’t be  _lost_ , would he?”

Michael laughs and says, “Yeah okay,” a bit of a slur on his words that he hopes Louis doesn’t notice; not that Louis seems capable of noticing much right now, he has a pretty decent slur of his own going on. “Well, find him.”

“Trying!” Louis says impatiently, and Michael can hear the dimming of the music. He thinks for a second that maybe Louis  _did_  make it quieter through sheer drunken belief, then realises that actually, Louis probably just went outside or something less telepathic and _X-Men_ or whatever. Fuck, Michael’s drunk.

“Ugh, I’m drunk,” Michael says, not to anyone in particular. Just, like, the universe.

Louis huffs out a laugh. “Knew you’d crack that beer open, mate.”

“Art is stressful,” Michael complains, glaring at his paint palette before hunting around for his apparently walkabout bottle of beer; he’s pretty sure he didn’t finish it. It sprouted _legs_.

“ _Harry’s_ stressful!” Louis snaps. “The fuck did the wanker  _go_? Liam! Oi, Liam, have you seen Hazza?”

Michael rolls his eyes and gives up on the standing up thing he’s apparently been doing and luckily finds the remainder of his beer underneath the stool. Awesome. “Harry  _is_  stressful,” he agrees distantly, knocking back what’s left in the bottle.

“Harry really likes you,” Louis says conversationally, and it’s so out of the blue that Michael thinks he probably fucking imagined it.

“Huh?” he manages back.

Louis sighs like this is all a bit of a chore. “Harry. He really fucking likes you, mate. Just, like, thought you should know, because he’s being a bit of a hopeless tit about letting you know, you know?”

Michael feels something twist in his stomach. It’s probably the alcohol, he thinks. Harry likes _everyone_. “Oh,” he says slowly, like his heartbeat isn’t ringing in his ears. He’s definitely blaming the fucking alcohol for that; maybe he’ll even blame Louis, he probably bought some cheap, knock-off shit—the kind that Ashton buys sometimes. “Wait, why—”

“Oh, I’ve found him! I’ve found him!” Louis exclaims – just about  _shrieks_  actually – in Michael’s ear, cutting him off mid-asking something probably stupid and whiney like  _why won’t he let me be his boyfriend?_  because he’s a complete drunk and mopey teenager.

“Hazza, I’ve got your knight in emo armour on the phone!” Louis shouts happily.

There’s a lot of clambering and clanking sounds. Michael’s pretty sure he can hear murmured voices and stifled giggling amongst it too; he’s beginning to feel a lot like the butt of some sort of Harry and Louis Inside Joke (he’s not jealous; he’s just sometimes-jealous, which isn’t the same at all) until Harry says, “Babe!” into his ear, stretching out the word happily.

Harry’s fucking smashed, then. He only ever calls Michael  _babe_  when he’s smashed out of his skull, or been spending a bit too much time in the same room as Louis and Zayn because apparently that’s a  _thing_  of theirs.

“Hey,” Michael says, and he sort of wants to punch himself in the face a little bit because the  _unrestrained happiness_  he feels just hearing Harry’s voice right now is downright awful and he should probably be ashamed about it or something.

“You really do look hot with paint in your hair,” Harry slurs, his voice low. Michael tries not to notice _how_ low.

“Hmmm, yeah. Matted yellow paint. Hot,” he says back tonelessly.

Harry giggles. “No, ‘mean it. You look  _hot_  when you paint; you’re like, all smudgy. ’s good,” he says. His words are impossibly slower when he’s drunk, sort of languid, and really, really not  _fair_.

“Unlike the rest of the time when I  _don’t_  look hot?” Michael jokes, leaning his back against the wall and picking at the flecks of paint stuck to his forearm; maybe he could play dot-to-dot and make them into a shape. Or something. Fuck, he wants Harry to come home.

“Fuck off,” Harry says with a great deal of what Michael’s going to call  _drunken-affection_ , “you look hot all the time, Mikey.”

Michael’s heart jumps a little bit at the nickname, it always does; he likes the way it rolls off Harry’s tongue, it sounds different, more important when Harry says it. Like it was meant for him to say.

“You could, like, come home and smudge paint on me yourself. If you want,” Michael suggests hastily. He doesn’t want to drag Harry away from the night, or whoever the night involves, but he just. Shit.

Michael’s cool with Harry sleeping with other people. Really. Except for the part where he’s not okay with it  _at all_ , but he’s never voiced that out loud and he probably shouldn’t expect Harry to read his mind or whatever. It’s not like he ever  _asks_  about what Harry does on the days he’s Not With Michael; he thinks they have a sort of don’t ask, don’t tell policy or something. Which is good because Michael doesn’t want Harry to tell, ever.

He thinks he might have made this whole not-boyfriends thing a lot more complicated in his head than it actually  _is_. Or maybe it’s just complicated because he sort of loves Harry, just a little bit.

Harry makes a low exasperated sound down the line that Michael half-hates and half-fucking  _loves_. “Hang on,” Harry says distantly, “I’m gonna call a taxi. Where’s my  _phone_?”

Michael’s about to say  _you’re on it_ , but then he remembers the picture of Louis with the hamster, so instead says, “Hurry up, yeah?”

“Yeah. I found it! See you soon,” Harry says gruffly, then adds a cheeky, “don’t start without me!” that Michael giggles like a dork at.

Michael gets out a sort of slurred  _bye_ , but Harry’s already hung up.

*

By the time Harry stumbles in, Michael’s opened up another beer and stared inspiration-less at the painting for approximately twenty minutes. He’s frowning at the stars – that he still doesn’t  _like_ , ugh – when he hears the jangle of keys in the door and, who he presumes to be Harry anyway, almost falling through it. He thinks he should probably get up and, like, see if Harry’s alright, but he doesn’t think his own ability to stand is up to much either.

“Hey!” Harry says loudly, shrugging off his jacket and throwing it in the direction of the sofa as he staggers his way across the room.

“Hey, there,” Michael replies, biting his bottom lip in… anticipation? Not-boyfriend troubles? He’s not even sure.

Harry grins, bright and wide and _hammered_ , and then reaches over, leaning against Michael’s back and wrapping his arms around him where he’s sitting a bit unsteady on the stool. He grabs the almost-empty beer from Michael’s hand and downs what’s left and then drops it to the floor with a clang.

“Missed you,” he slurs, nosing at Michael’s neck. His nose is cold and Michael shivers a bit until Harry replaces his nose with his mouth, pressing slow, wet kisses just beneath his jaw.

Michael leans back a bit and groans, managing to twist himself around to meet Harry’s lips. Harry tastes like shots; Michael doesn’t know what  _kind_  of shots because usually he’s a bit off his face when he’s doing shots and they all taste the same, so just: shots. Harry kisses like he talks, slow and languid, and there’s no real intent behind it—yet, anyway.

Harry pulls back after a moment, breath puffing a little shortly against Michael’s lips before he turns his attention to the painting. “Hey, did you finish it?”

“I finished two,” Michael says a little proudly, shifting a bit so Harry can half-sit on his lap.

Harry carefully studies the painting on the easel—the dreary night sky (working title, Michael thinks). His eyes flit everywhere, over the stars, the harsh but not Van Gogh-harsh brush strokes.

“It’s bloody incredible, Mikey,” Harry breathes.

Michael wrings his hands awkwardly in his (still-possibly-Harry’s) t-shirt, bunching it up. He watches carefully as Harry’s eyes continue to sweep over the painting like it’s the greatest thing he’s ever seen, shining glassily in the now far-too-bright lights that Michael’s so attached to.

“Thanks,” he murmurs back.

He shuffles Harry off his lap carefully, standing himself up and leaving him there to look, and leans behind him to switch the little lamp next to the sofa on then paces one-two-three steps across the room to flick off the main lights. When he gets back Harry’s reaching out to touch, his fingers just ghosting over the shimmery surface of the painting; Michael snaps his hand up quicker than a flash, circling Harry’s wrist.

“Don’t,” he says quietly, loosening his grip a little bit. “It’s not dry.”

Harry stares down at where Michael’s still got a hold of him. “Heyyyy,” he whines, “your hands are all painty.”

Michael grins and lets go of his wrist, leaving an uneven circle of blue around it. “Oops?”

Harry frowns, all drunk and faux-angry. “There were no rules about me not getting you all smudgy-painty too,” Michael tells him with a grin. He leans over and stumbles a bit, sliding his hand through the palette of messy mixed colours and brandishing it in front of Harry.

“This shirt’s new!” Harry protests weakly, but there’s a bit of a wicked grin on his face so Michael goes for it anyway, pulling Harry back down by his arm with one hand and smearing the blue down his cheek and neck with the other. Harry leans into his touch despite the paint.

Michael’s just about to reach down for more paint when Harry grabs his hand, sticky blue and all, and lowers himself down until he’s back in Michael’s lap; Michael opens his mouth to complain that he’s crushing his leg a bit but Harry swallows the words before they can ever be voiced, and well, okay. Cool.

Harry kisses differently this time; it feels almost like he’s _committing_ to it, his other hand tight on Michael’s shoulder and his tongue hot and urgent and pushing Michael’s mouth open. Michael whimpers a little, letting him in and digging his fingers hard into Harry’s arm, trying to pull him a bit closer; he has an awful feeling that at some point this stool’s going to topple right over and take them both with it, but he can’t bring himself to care right now, not with Harry desperately licking into his mouth.

Harry draws back a touch and Michael lets out a frustrated sound he really didn’t mean to. “You taste like paint. It’s fucking hot,” Harry breathes, and Michael can’t help but laugh breathlessly.

He’s not entirely sure how he  _tastes_  like paint – it’s not like he eats the stuff – but he doesn’t get a chance to dwell much on it before all of a sudden Harry’s jerking back, a bottle of grass-green paint in his left hand out of  _nowhere_. He grins a bit menacingly before squirting it without mercy all over Michael’s _hair_. Michael’s reflexes are apparently sub-fucking-par in his drunken state, because he moves entirely too late, only managing to miss the last dregs of it.

“Shit,” he says, running his hand through his hair and getting it all tacky with green. “You bastard!”

Harry just laughs at him – head-thrown-back _laughs_ – and Michael’s ready for  _war_  now; he briefly notices Harry’s eyes go wide before he’s diving to the floor and snatching up the first colour he sees. It’s a bowl of gloopy blue, and he upends it all over Harry’s head without much hesitation.

Harry sits stunned for a moment, tugging at his  _precious locks_  like Michael’s just done something  _unholy_ , so Michael uses it to his advantage to grab a tub of red that he'd used earlier; it’s drying up a bit but still good, so he scoops his hand in and swipes it over Harry’s nose with a – pretty embarrassing – high pitched giggle.

Harry digs him in the side and glares, but Michael can tell he’s not really put out. “You look like a clown,” he giggles helplessly, grabbing onto Harry’s arm to stop him from digging his side again.

Michael’s still laughing when Harry says, “You’re such a  _dork_.”

He pushes him off the stool and into one of the paint palettes lying on the floor, and Michael feels all the fucking air rush out of his lungs when Harry lands squarely _on top of him_. He sticks his hand into the palette of black by Michael's head and then presses it against his jaw and neck, fingers trailing slowly.

Michael stops laughing then; Harry’s straddling him now, one arm holding himself up and the other still stuck with paint to Michael’s cheek; there’re splotches of paint in his hair and smudged over his face and his eyes are impossibly dark and God, he looks really really good.

He ducks his head down a bit and Michael pushes himself up into it, catching his lips halfway and kissing him slow. Harry makes a sort of strangled noise though, pressing harder, slick and wet before drawing back and leaving Michael a little bit breathless and a little bit horribly needy and—and honestly Michael’s been half-hard since he talked to Harry on the phone, his voice low and full of drunken promises, and he  _knows_  Harry can feel it.

Harry smirks, pushing his hips down as if reading Michael’s thoughts and  _shit_. “ _Harry_ ,” he breathes, blinking up at him and begging him with his eyes to  _do something_ —maybe roll his hips down again, maybe fucking kiss him again, maybe  _what-the-fuck-ever._

Harry stares down attentively at where his paint-covered hand is still on Michael’s cheek a bit like he’s fascinated, and Michael can do nothing but stare right back as Harry trails his fingers slowly downwards, stretching the material of his –  _their_  – t-shirt and smudging the paint in little waves over his shoulder and collarbone and then gradually down his arm until he’s at his wrist, pinning it to floor. Michael only notices then that Harry has his other wrist pinned too, fingers curled around it in a painty circle.

He manages to let out a breathy, “Please,” and then Harry’s mouth is on his again.

Michael groans into it and pushes his hips up a bit, and Harry's whole body jerks against him. He huffs out a sharp breath and sucks on Michael's bottom lip before dragging his mouth down, kissing over Michael's neck, collarbones, shoulders—just about any skin he can get at and Michael feels a bit like he’s _going to die_.

"Ah,  _shit_ ," Michael whines, pushing his hips up in some kind of half-arsed rhythm and hooking his leg around the back of Harry's to try and get him _closer_.

"Fuck," Harry hisses, then releases his hold on Michael's wrists, pushing his hands up under the t-shirt, hands pressing tight into Michael’s skin. And Michael has to try really hard not to think about the  _handprints_  Harry's probably marking all over his chest with the paint, because he _really_ doesn't want to come that fucking quick.

He lifts his arms up helpfully so Harry can pull his t-shirt off and takes advantage of having the use of his  _hands_  back to curl them into Harry’s hair and pull him down into a slick kiss. Harry makes a desperate sound in the back of his throat that goes straight to Michael's dick and breaks off breathlessly, yanking off his own shirt—and  _yeah_ , Michael was waiting for that and he doesn't hesitate in getting his hands all over him, covering him with his own dark handprints.

Harry bats him away after a moment though, leaning back down and getting his stupidly pretty mouth all over Michael's chest and down over his ribs to his hip, where he sinks his teeth in. "'m gonna suck you," Harry mumbles into his skin, voice low and _obscene_.

Michael pushes his hips up. "Yeah, god— _please_ ," he breathes.

"So fucking polite," Harry hums, starting in on Michael's belt; Michael just groans, letting his head bang back against the hard wood floor.

Harry scrapes his teeth over Michael’s hip once more before dragging down his jeans and pants, Michael helpfully hitching up his hips a bit. And then Harry’s on him, sucking the head of his cock into his mouth slow, circling with his tongue and—“Fuck, Harry,” Michael whimpers.

Harry’s a teasing fucking bastard and Michael’s about to be not-so-polite and tell him so when Harry sucks him down in one fluid motion and the fucking air and words punch right out of his lungs. _Christ_ , he’s really not going to last long.

He forces himself to open his eyes and look down, watch Harry’s mouth wet and hot and wrapped around his dick, and just that is almost enough. He curls his fingers into Harry’s blue-paint-soaked hair and tugs, and Harry lets out a long moan; Michael’s not even sure he heard it, but he _felt_ it and his hips jerk up of their own accord. Harry just moans around him, taking him deeper and dragging one of his hands through the blue paint palette before bringing it up to claw at Michael’s chest. Michael squeezes his eyes shut and has to suck in a fucking breath because apparently he’d stopped _inhaling oxygen_.

“’m close,” he manages to choke out—somehow—and then he fucking _jumps_ because that loud as all hell _bang_ that just rang through the flat was definitely nothing to do with them.

Harry must have heard it too because he jerks back off Michael’s cock, frowning.

Michael can hear clattering about in the hallway now and—“Shit,” he complains, more about the fact that he was so fucking _close_ than the fact that Louis’ probably about to _walk in on them_.

“Louis,” Harry says with a bit of annoyance.

Michael doesn’t even _care_ if Louis’ there, he’s drunk enough that he doesn’t care; he just wants Harry’s mouth back on him.

Except it’s not _just_ Louis – bloody obviously – because the next thing Michael knows, Zayn’s stumbling into the room, Louis attached at the fucking mouth. Michael watches, a little bit oddly entranced by it all, while Zayn pushes Louis up against the wall and ruts into him desperately, letting out a string of curses. Michael’s cock twitches in sympathy.

It’s Harry who finally clears his throat, though, and not until Zayn has Louis’ shirt half hanging off and Louis’ working at the button of Zayn’s jeans. And Michael can’t help but keep coming back to Harry and Harry sleeping with other people and if—

“Shit,” Louis slurs, eyes falling over them both, finally. Zayn’s still working his mouth over Louis’ neck, utterly fucking unaffected by any of it.

“Kinda busy here, Lou,” Harry says, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah I—shit,” Louis groans, “I can see that. Just— _fuck_ —carry on. We’re not even here.”

Harry shrugs, tilting his head at Michael questioningly like there really even is a question there. Michael shrugs right back, because he doesn’t give a fuck where he is or who else is there, Harry’s mouth is hovering dangerously close to his dick and he needs to get off _now_.

He twists his hands into Harry’s hair and Harry apparently takes the hint, sucking him back down quick and hot. Michael bucks his hip, fucking up into it, and Harry lets him—always does—digging his fingers in to Michael’s hip a little bit and sucking him down further in quick pace, not even bothering to ease him back into it.

“Shit, _fuck_ , Harry,” he gasps out. And he can’t even _hear_ Louis and Zayn over his own heartbeat pounding in his head as he comes hot down Harry’s throat.

“God,” he breathes hard, Harry sucking him through it until he’s flinching away, oversensitive. “Shit—you’re so hot.”

Harry grins up at him, “Dork.”

“C’mere,” Michael says quietly, pulling Harry up so he can chase his taste on Harry’s tongue.

Harry groans, letting Michael lick him open and then sinking his teeth into his lip; he tugs on it before letting it go and sliding his tongue back in, rutting up against Michael’s thigh. “Fucking— _touch me_ ,” he grits out.

Michael laughs. “Bossy,” he says, but Harry’s already dragging his hand down towards his cock.

Michael thinks he hears Zayn then, drawing out Louis’ name in a moan, and he’s suddenly reminded that they’re _there_ , that he just got off with Harry’s best fucking mate not five feet across the room. He tries not to dwell on how fucking weird that is and rolls out from under Harry, helping him shuffle out of jeans so he can get a hand around his cock.

Harry lets out an obscene moan and bites down against Michael’s shoulder to stifle it a bit. Michael just hums, tugging at Harry’s cock slowly until Harry’s whining and jutting his hips urgently.

“Shit, Mikey—just,” he chokes out, and Michael gets it, speeding up and thumbing over the head. He chances a glance over at Zayn and Louis, just to see if they’re still there, but he feels Harry’s fingers pressing into his chin in a heartbeat.

“Don’t—don’t look at them,” Harry gets out, pushing his cock harder into the circle of Michael’s fist, and Michael wants to say he wasn’t—not like _that_ , but then Harry says, “look at _me_ ,” and then kisses him so hard and bruising that Michael loses his rhythm a bit, hand faltering.

Harry whimpers into his mouth; he’s too far gone to keep the kiss going for long so Michael does as he asks and just… looks at him, presses their foreheads together and watches—watches his eyelashes flutter, and that bloody mouth of his falling open and gasping a breath and it’s. Suddenly this is the most intimate Michael’s ever felt, and it’s not like he hadn’t done anything with anyone before Harry, but he’s never felt like _this_.

“Faster,” Harry grits out; Michael gets the rhythm back easy, lets his other hand wander, rubbing over Harry’s balls and letting his fingers trail over his hole.

“C’mon,” Michael murmurs, circling hesitantly then pushing in the tip of his finger, and that’s all it takes, Harry shaking through his orgasm and spilling onto Michael’s hand with a groan that sounds a bit like _Mikey_ and a bit like nothing intelligible and _Christ_ —sometimes Michael thinks he could get off to the sound of that alone.

He slows down the pace until Harry’s running empty and then wipes his hand all over Harry’s chest, come sliding together with paint.

Harry looks down and says, a bit breathless, “ _Wanker_ ,” and it takes everything in Michael’s power to not comment; he just laughs instead. Harry rolls his eyes and curls his fingers into Michael’s hip, pulling him a bit closer.

They’re quiet for a bit, only the sounds of Louis’ – or Zayn’s, probably both – breathy moans audible, and oh yeah, them. Michael can’t help but burst out a laugh. Harry laughs too, a little bit louder, pressing his face into Michael’s neck.

“Hey, some of us are—ah—trying to fuck—ing come over here,” Zayn’s voice chokes out from somewhere and Michael’s lost in a fit of giggles.

He feels Harry smile against his neck, and then he’s leaning up to meet Michael’s lips. kissing him soft and lazy and swallowing his laughter. “Let’s go to bed,” he mumbles.

“Like this?” Michael asks, looking down at the tacky paint still covering them like a fucking multi-coloured rash.

“Oh,” Harry says, a bit like he’d forgotten. “Yeah. I don’t care, I’ll get new sheets. I want to cuddle in a _bed_.”

Michael refrains from pointing out that Harry’s sheets are white, because yeah, cuddling sounds good, and Zayn and Louis are getting awfully _loud_.

Harry grabs at their shared t-shirt hanging off the side of the stool and uses it to half-arsedly wipe off some of the mess of come and paint before dragging himself up and properly kicking off his jeans and pants which are apparently still half attached to his ankles.

Michael stare ups, eyes still a bit drunk-hazy, and just takes Harry in; there are smears of paint and smudged handprints littering just about all of his body and fuck if that’s not hot. Harry catches him staring and smirks, extending his arm out, and Michael huffs out a tired breath and grabs at Harry’s red-yellow-blue (primary coloured) hand with a lazy grin and lets him pull him up. His feet slide a bit on the paint-covered floor and he feels Harry’s hand sharp on his hip to steady him before he’s tugging him quick across the room.

“Happy orgasms!” he throws in the direction of Zayn and Louis as they slip through the living room door, and Michael can distantly hear Louis moan out something of an acknowledgement, and maybe a strangled, “Congratulations on yours!”

When they’ve stumbled far enough down the hall and into Harry’s room, Michael flops down onto the bed, still grasping Harry’s hand and bringing him down with him with a soft thump. He shuffles about a bit, pulling back the covers and printing paint stains into the sheets; he thinks briefly about waking up in the morning on sheets painted like the fucking rainbow and is pretty sure Harry’s going to really regret doing this. But he doesn’t complain.

Harry doesn’t seem all that arsed right now, at least, clinging to Michael like fucking Spider-Man, all long limbs wrapping around him and holding him close, face pressed to the back of Michael’s neck. Michael exhales happily—he loves this, loves that Harry loves cuddling as much as he does.

“’m gonna fuck you in the morning, yeah?” Harry mumbles into his neck in the same sort of lazy tone you’d say _we’re gonna get some shopping in tomorrow, yeah?_

“Fuck, yeah,” Michael breathes. “I’m into that.”

He sort of wishes Louis and Zayn hadn’t come back when they did, thinks about Harry fucking into him slow on the paint-covered floor, smearing paint and pressing bruises over Michael’s hips where he’s digging his fingers in to hold him steady and pull him back onto his cock.

It’s not even that Michael had cared a whole lot about Louis and Zayn being there, vague and hazy in the background. Not in any sort of self-conscious way anyway; mostly he’d forgotten they were there. But he—doesn’t know if _Harry_ had forgotten. He can’t help but wonder whether it’s a thing for him, maybe. He knows Harry sleeps with other people he just… didn’t think Harry would want to involve other people when sleeping with Michael, is all.

Sometimes Michael thinks they should maybe stop all of this, but then he thinks of Harry flushed and hot and needy; or he thinks of this, just this, just Harry wrapped around him and falling asleep against him and he—can’t bring himself to stop it.

Harry puffs out a long breath, warm against Michael’s skin. “I’m into _you_ ,” he says belatedly, sleepy.

Michael smiles. “You will be in the morning,” he says, can’t help himself from jumping on the opportunity.

Harry nudges his neck with his nose. “Idiot,” he says affectionately in a half-tired, half-still-a-bit-drunk slur.

“Yep,” Michael manages before he Stops Thinking and closes his eyes.

*

Michael pads through to the living room in the morning, his eyes stinging at the corners with the evil blinding daylight clearly created to _destroy_ him that’s flooding through the windows—this flat needs less windows. Or more curtains, that might be easier.

Louis and Zayn are curled up on the sofa under a bizarre hippy-esque quilt that Michael’s never seen before, watching one of the Iron Man movies; Michael’s head hurts far too much to concentrate long enough to figure out which one. But Harry’s nowhere to be seen. He had been nowhere to be seen when Michael had woken up either and it—well, it sort of _stings_ a little that Harry hadn’t followed through on his promise.

It’s not like Michael’s whiney and gagging for it or anything—alright, well he is a little bit, but he’s _seventeen_ so what’s he supposed to do, honestly? It’s just that… Harry doesn’t usually leave. He wonders if maybe Harry realised something last night—realised that actually, they _are_ sort of dating and it’s not okay.

He perches himself on the arm of the sofa with a little defeated sigh and offers Louis and Zayn a bit of an awkward, “Hey.”

Zayn gives him a tired nod and Louis throws a little wave and, well, nothing seems off with them at least, so he guesses they’re all probably just going to skip past the weirdness of last night and go straight to laughing and/or forgetting about it.

Michael would be completely on board with that plan if he thought he _could_ do either of those things.

“You guys seen Harry anywhere?” he asks them, pressing two fingers into his temple where he thinks a miniature marching band might be currently residing.

“Shhhhh,” Louis admonishes and buries his head into Zayn’s chest, his voice muffled when he says, “please keep talking volume to a minimum, there’s a freight train in my fucking head.”

Michael huffs out a laugh; his own head can empathise. “Sorry,” he whispers.

“That note stuck to your side might tell you where Haz is, mate,” Zayn points out, his eyebrows lowered into a frown and staring a bit confused at Michael’s waist.

Michael jerks his head down, and sure enough there’s a pink post-it note stuck to him. He stares at it blankly for a moment – how did he not _feel_ that? – and then pulls it off quickly, wincing as the fucking _medical-tape_ Harry had apparently stuck it on with tears from his skin.

_Mikey!_  
  
 _Out antique-searching with Nick,_  
 _stay as long as you want._  
 _See you later,_  
  
 _Harry :) xxxx_

“Oh,” Michael says, mostly to himself.

Louis looks up from where he’s still buried into Zayn’s chest long enough to ask, “Everything alright, mate?”

Michael shrugs. “Yeah.”

Louis looks a lot like he doesn’t believe him, but he doesn’t comment, just asks, “Wanna watch Iron Man?”

“Yeah.”

Zayn pushes Louis further down the sofa and then scoots a long too, patting the newly made space.

Michael settles into it, pulling some of the weird hippy-esque blanket over him and leaning his head against Zayn’s shoulder while Louis skips back the DVD for him.

They’re about five minutes through when Louis turns to him and says with a little knowing smirk, “By the way, you’re fucking covered in paint.”

*

Michael manages to stand up long enough to shower and scrub himself clean of (most of) the paint that’s covering his body; he looks a lot like a rainbow, it’s a shame it’s not fucking _Mardi Gras_ or something—this’d be a stellar look. He stands under the hot spray for close enough to an hour and uses at least half a bottleof shower gel that might actually be Louis’, and he’s still pretty sure that he hasn’t managed to get all of the bloody paint off.

He’s out the shower and watching Captain America next, with Louis and Zayn, when he hears the door go and Harry breezes in, looking a lot more fresh-faced and alive than Michael feels. Bastard.

“Hey,” he greets the room, dumping down a bag that Michael assumes has, like, and antique candlestick or something ridiculous in it. Harry always comes back with the most bizarre things.

“Alright?” Louis says.

Michael smiles, not saying a word.

Zayn doesn’t say anything either, but he’s also eerily dead-like asleep on Louis’ shoulder.

“I got this cool, like, antique teacup; from the 1800s or something,” Harry babbles, wandering over to the sofa and perching on the edge next to Michael, “and a bunch of old records. Picked up some I thought you might like too.”

It takes Michael a moment to realise he’s talking to _him_. “Oh, um. Thanks.”

Louis casts him a worried glance from over Zayn’s head, and then probably an even more worried glance to Harry. Michael’s not meaning to be a cunt about this, he’s really not; he’s just tired and in love with his casual hook up, which he concedes is mostly his fault, but still.

He sighs blearily. “Anyone want some tea?”

Louis shakes his head and Harry just frowns at him, clearly a bit confused. Eventually he says, “No thanks,” quietly and Michael nods, standing up to pace through to the kitchen.

He can feel Harry on his tail, following him through with his confused and hurt eyes—which, wow, this is going to suck. Michael knew he would follow—was sort of counting on it, though. He didn’t know how else to get Harry out of the room without point blank saying, “We need to talk,” in that tone people use when they… Need To Talk.

“Are you alright?” Harry asks when the kitchen door’s mostly closed behind them.

“You… weren’t there when I woke up,” Michael eventually settles on. He’s aware that he sounds awfully _boyfriendy_ but that’s sort of the whole point of this conversation, isn’t it?

“I woke up early, didn’t want to wake you up too,” Harry says, eyes completely bewildered.

Michael wants to articulate himself properly but he doesn’t even know how. “Everyone loves you,” he huffs, a bit like a petulant child who maybe had their favourite toy snatched away, but. “And you love _everyone_.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees plainly. “Wait. Is that what this is about? Are you _jealous_?”

“Yeah. Wait, _no_ , it doesn’t matter,” Michael says hurriedly; he is jealous a bit, but not for the reasons Harry probably thinks. He’s not possessive, he’s just kind of in love? Maybe that’s the same thing half the time. “It’s just last night. I thought maybe that was a thing for you or something. And then I woke up and you were with Nick and—”

Harry frowns, scrunching his face up all _serious_ and annoyingly beautiful like. “Last night,” he repeats. “You mean Louis and Zayn?”

“It’s okay for you to sleep with other people,” Michael says uselessly, because he feels that it’s something he needs to acknowledge as a thing he’s willing to live with. It’s not exactly okay but he supposes he’d rather Harry be his not-boyfriend than his not _anything._ “I just—I don’t want them to be there when you sleep with _me_.”

Harry stares at him a lot like he thinks Michael needs to be _sectioned_ which is really not what Michael hoped to get out of this conversation. Shit, he’s doing this all wrong.

“I don’t… sleep with Louis and Zayn when you’re not here, you know,” Harry says after a quiet moment.

Michael frowns. “No, well, I didn’t think that—”

“I don’t sleep with _anyone_ when you’re not here,” Harry says blankly, like the thought of it hadn’t even crossed his mind.

“Okay, but,” Michael starts and then stops, hearing Harry’s words back. “Wait. You don’t?”

“No,” Harry answers softly. “Do you _want_ me to sleep with Louis and Zayn or— _other_ people?” he asks, bemused tone quiet and maybe a bit hurt too.

Michael feels really young all of a sudden; he’s not even that much younger than Harry, really, but he feels it a bit now. Like maybe Harry just thinks of him as a clueless seventeen year old who evidently knows nothing about relationships, or not-relationships. Whatever.

He shakes his head. “No. I mean, I just thought—”

“That I love everyone,” Harry finishes slowly. Michael doesn’t say anything. “I mean, yeah. I do. I just kind of—I love _people_.”

Michael nods slowly and Harry just rolls his eyes and steps closer, closer, closer, walking Michael backwards until his back’s digging into the counter and there’s nowhere else to _go_. He feels trapped—he feels like he wants to _run_ , and shit those two things don’t really go together.

“But I’m not _in love_ with everyone,” Harry goes on, his expression impossibly _earnest_. “Just _one_.”

It takes approximately seven seconds for Michael to get it, and when he does the most he can apparently fucking utter is an, “Oh.” _Oh_.

“The one’s _you_ , by the way—like, just in case you didn’t get that,” Harry says matter-of-factly, a little hint of a smile on his lips. Michael stares, and stares and stares, and for a long minute he doesn’t say anything, opening and closing his mouth because he’s forgotten what speaking even _is_. How do words even fucking _form_ , anyway?

“I—yeah?” he manages finally, his heart lodged somewhere in his throat and threatening to spill right out.

“ _Yeah_. I thought _you_ wanted to sleep with other people,” Harry says, and Michael flashes back to Harry’s fingers pressing into his jaw, his desperate gasp of, “Look at _me_ ,” from the night before and—fucking _oh_.

“Fuck no,” Michael says sharply, grinning a little now. “Why the hell would you think that?”

Harry splutters a bit. “I don’t know, because you’re—like, you’re _young_.”

Michael blinks. “Oh my god, _shut up_ , I’m not that young. And you’re not that fucking old.”

“I—yeah, I _know_. Just.” Harry frowns, like he can’t even remember what his point was.

Michael rolls his eyes and curls his fingers into Harry’s t-shirt, pulling him half a step closer. “I don’t want anyone else,” he tells him, hands settling on his waist. “I don’t want to go off and fuck anyone just to try and, like, find myself or whatever. I want _you_.”

Harry’s mouth stretches into a slow smile. “Okay good,” he breathes.

“Yeah, good,” Michael echoes softly. “Okay, now that we’ve established how pathetic we are, can you please fuck me like you promised?"

“So fucking _polite_ ,” Harry says with a grin, and then he’s sliding his hands up into Michael’s hair and pulling, slanting their lips together and kissing him hotly. He licks over Michael’s lips and into his mouth slow and fucking—Michael doesn’t even know: _sensual_. It feels like this is the first time they’ve ever done this and Harry’s mapping him out all over again. Michael squeezes his eyes shut tighter for a second and maps him out too, kisses him with all the pent up emotion that’s been filling up his lungs and threatening to drown him from the inside. It all feels different somehow, kissing Harry; it feels sort of like the weight that had been there before has been lifted right off the top of him and left him open and fucking defenceless—but it feels _good_.

“Fuck,” Harry says against his mouth, like they’re fucking sharing thoughts now, “fuck, I want you so much.”

Michael slides his hands up over Harry’s collarbones and digs his fingers into his shoulders, needing something to hold onto; they’re shaking – his hands – he can feel them vibrating against Harry’s skin. He feels fragile all of a sudden and a bit like he might fall apart, like he could just fucking shatter. Because he could have had this, could have had all of this, had Harry completely if he – if _they_ – hadn’t have been so bloody _stupid_.

He licks at Harry’s mouth slowly then says, “You can have me. I mean—you _have_ me.”

Harry’s eyes somehow manage to be dark and bright and soft and intense all at fucking once and then he’s tugging on Michael’s arm and hooking his fingers tight around his elbow to pull them both towards the door. They stumble as far as the hall before Harry’s on him again, mouthing and kissing over his lips and jaw and neck. His hands wind around to Michael’s arse and pull him flush against him and Michael moans quietly as their hips knock together.

Michael gets his hands on Harry’s face and his fingers tangled into his hair, and he pulls him into a raw kiss that has Harry whining desperately, rubbing up against him. 

“ _Shit_ , not here,” Harry breathes into his mouth, like he’s only just realised that they’re not actually in his _room_ yet.

Michael doesn’t particularly want a replay of Louis and Zayn walking in on them so he slides his hands down to Harry’s chest and pushes him backwards towards the door, kicking it open and kissing him clumsily. It’s messy and wet and fucking uncoordinated, and Harry groans, Michael dragging his teeth to nip at the skin on Harry’s neck.

Harry lets out a frustrated whine but somehow—fucking magic—manages to get the door shut behind them without breaking contact. “Fuck, let me—” he says breathlessly and pulls a bit frantically at Michael’s t-shirt and his jeans, too, like he can’t quite decide what the fuck one he wants rid of first.

“ _Off_ ,” he demands, apparently forgoing choosing one or the other to pull his own shirt off. Michael complies easily, yanking his shirt over his head and shoving down his jeans and pants, shimmying a bit inelegantly out of them and kicking them to the side.

When he looks back up, Harry’s out of his own too and suddenly impossibly fucking _close_ ; his hands curl around Michael’s hip and he presses up tight against him for a slick, dirty kiss before pushing him down hard onto the bed.

Michael blinks up at him, willing him to fucking move; he wants to get his hands on Harry’s skin, press his fingers down hard and leave bruises instead of painted fingerprints this time. “Come _here_ ,” he whines impatiently, fingers reaching out.

Harry stares for a long moment; his eyes sweep over every fucking inch of him and Michael feels scrutinised and horrifyingly vulnerable.

“You’re fucking amazing,” Harry lets out.

Michael doesn’t get a chance to properly register how completely and genuinely awed Harry sounds before he’s leaning down and crawling on top of him. Michael lets out a breath and gets a hand around Harry’s back and presses his fingers tight in his skin, pulling him all the way down against him. He rolls his hips up against Harry’s thigh in short, rough thrusts and Harry hisses out a breath and gets the hint, shifting over him slightly until their dicks slide together and— _Jesus fuck_.

“Harry,” Michael says, but it comes out mostly nonsensical because Harry’s sliding their dicks together in an achingly slow rhythm, letting out little breathy moans that Michael wants to swallow. He leans up a bit to where Harry’s propping himself up with his arm and Harry meets him in the middle; he sucks Michael’s bottom lip into his mouth, digging in his teeth and rolling his hips down with a bit more pressure, and Michael is so hard he wants to scream. He tugs hard on Harry’s hair, pulling his teeth off him because he’s needs—“God, _Harry_ , I need you to—” he doesn’t know. Anything.

“What if I make you beg?” Harry breathes out low, pressing a hand down against Michael’s hip to hold him still.

Michael makes a desperate sort of sound deep in his throat and tries to jerk his hips up to get more friction, but Harry’s fingers are bruising into him and keeping him in place. “You fucking _dare_ ,” he grits out. “Just— _do something_.”

“Say please,” Harry murmurs and grins easily.

He leans down, licking over Michael’s collarbones and scraping his teeth along his neck and _Christ_ , as soon as Michael can partially function again he’s going to absolutely kill him. He presses his lips just below Michael’s ear and swipes his tongue over the skin and Michael fucking squirms, squeezing his eyes shut.

“You’re— _shit_ ,” he gasps, Harry dragging his hips up just a little harder, “you’re a fucking tease.”

He feels Harry smile against his neck. “That’s not a please,” he says, voice shaking a bit, and Michael knows this is pulling Harry apart every bit it is him.

Michael lets out a strangled sound and drags Harry’s mouth away from his neck so he can look at him. “I swear to fucking God,” he whines, and Harry meets his eyes and lets out a little broken huff of amusement.

He shifts the angle a bit, getting a hand in-between them and curling his fingers around both their dicks and jerking them slow and deliberate, dragging it out until Michael’s shaking against him. Michael would completely admire his resolve if he didn’t feel a lot he’s going to _die_ if Harry doesn’t speed that shit up soon.

Harry kisses down Michael’s chest at the same slow pace, leaving sharp teeth marks, and Michael has to—“Alright, alright, please,” Michael whimpers, finally caving, fine, whatever. Just—“ _Please_.”

“Please _what_?” Harry asks against Michael’s chest, the words vibrating. He swirls his tongue over one nipple and then the other, nipping at it with his teeth and Michael wants to fucking cry.

“ _Please_ ,” he says again. Harry looks up, resting his chin against Michael’s chest and smirking unashamedly. Michael groans, letting his head fall back and says, “Please just fucking _fuck me_ , you total _dick_.”

“Jesus,” Harry breathes, and Michael feels a little bit of small satisfaction at that.

Harry lets his grip on Michael’s hip go – thank every fucking god that ever existed, _fuck_ – and then crawls up and slides his tongue into Michael’s mouth; Michael twists his hand in Harry’s hair and rolls his hips up to meet Harry’s, upping the pace and _God_ , that feels good.

“Hang on,” Harry murmurs against his lips, and then he’s rolling off him and reaching for the dresser, and Michael feels fucking empty without him there.

“Hurry _up_ ,” he says with impatience.

“Shut up,” Harry says, throwing himself back down onto the bed, bottle of lube and condom in hand; he tosses the condom to the side and uncaps the lube, squeezing some over his fingers, “or I’ll make you beg some more.”

Michael glares at him, body shaking a bit—from the prospect of having to beg some more or Harry’s fingers, he doesn’t even know. “Next time I’m making _you_ beg.”

“Is that a promise?” Harry asks, and then leans down and licks up along Michael’s cock slowly.

“Oh, fuck,” Michael gasps, bucking his hips up and letting his legs fall apart, “yeah that’s a promise.” Harry makes a distressed sort of sound at that—and _God_ , that’s definitely something Michael wants to learn more about, but not right now.

He breathes out Harry’s name a little desperately and is about to let out a string of pleases but Harry’s got a finger inside him on just the first one. Michael squeezes his eyes shut and pushes against it. “Fuck, more, you can—” he says.

“Please,” Harry chastises and then lowers his head and mouths at Michael’s cock.

“ _Please_ ,” Michael grits out and then Harry’s sliding in another finger and Michael arches into it a little. He groans in frustration, snapping his hips down hard.

Harry huffs out a breath. “God, look at you, you’re—” he drops his other hand down to his own cock, wanking himself slowly as he adds a third finger and Michael has to look away or he’s going to fucking come before Harry even gets his dick inside him.

“Harry,” he warns sharply, and Harry pulls his fingers out and slides up to meet Michael’s lips; Michael catches them, licking and nipping at Harry’s mouth.

“Say it again,” Harry breathes against his jaw.

And Michael knows without even fucking asking. “Please, Harry—fuck, just _fuck me_ ,” he whines.

Harry leans back with satisfied grin and grabs the condom, tearing it open; Michael lies back for a moment, trying to catch his breath a bit and letting his hand lazily circle around his cock as Harry rolls the condom on and slicks himself up.

He bats Michael’s hand away with a strangled sound when he notices. “Want you to come off just my dick,” he says, and Michael thinks he could come off his just his _words_ , probably.

Harry lines himself up, pressing against him and Michael pushes down part of the way; he feels desperate, knows that he probably looks it too. Harry slides in smoothly the rest of the way, hooking up Michael’s leg and digging his fingers into his thigh.

He makes a low sound, lips parted, and Michael leans up and stretches to kiss him fast and wet as Harry fills him up. “Please fucking move,” he says, and Harry does—draws his hips back and snaps them down hard.

Michael curls his fingers into the sheets needing something to hold the fuck onto as Harry slams into him again. He shifts the angle after a while and rocks into him slower and—“ _Harry_ ,” Michael cries outs softly.

“Shit,” Harry breathes a little helplessly, “you feel so fucking amazing.”

Michael huffs out a broken noise somewhere between a laugh and a moan, and Harry fucks into him harder. He slides his hand down the inside of Michael’s thigh and around his cock, fingers just brushing at the side.

Michael tries to say words but they come out all garbled so he sinks his teeth into his lip instead. He can’t take his eyes off Harry’s face, can’t stop looking at the way his curls stick all damp to forehead; the way his eyelashes flutter when he shuts his eyes; the way he bites at his own lip each time he sinks back in.

Michael’s orgasm catches him by surprise, his entire body shaking through it as spills all over his stomach with Harry’s name on his lips. He covers his face with his forearm for a second, lying back and letting Harry take full reign of his body.

“God,” Harry says, fucking into him more and more erratically, hips stuttering and starting to lose their rhythm. Michael reaches a hand up to tangle into Harry’s hair and pull him close.

“Come on,” he breathes into the space between them.

When Harry comes his hips jerk and he presses his face into Michael’s shoulder, Michael’s name muffled against his skin.

Michael pulls his hand through Harry’s damp hair and tugs his head back gently just so he can look at him; at his flushed cheeks and dark hazy eyes.

Harry meets his eyes for half a second and then he’s pushing up on his elbows and they’re kissing—close and lazy and altogether fucking overwhelming.

Harry breaks away still too breathless, pressing his face against Michael’s cheek, and Michael says, almost a bit too quiet, “Me too, by the way.”

Harry glances up and raises an eyebrow. “ _Me too_?” he asks incredulously, moving to pull out.

Michael hisses a bit and then says while Harry’s busy tossing the condom. “I mean I love you too.”

Harry crawls back over him, skin damp with sweat and sticking to him. He settles across Michael’s chest and stares up at him through his lashes. “Mmmm should hope so,” he says lazily, “’else you just took massive advantage of my tragic unrequited love, mate.”

Michael laughs and then tugs Harry down and kisses him softly before rolling him off of him so he can snuggle into his side, fitting his head into Harry’s shoulder and just breathing.

“Ugh,” he groans after a minute, _life_ suddenly rushing back. “I’ve still gotta finish that coursework.”

“I’ll cheerlead,” Harry offers, pulling his fingers softly through Michael’s hair.

“You’ll distract,” Michael corrects, because he really doesn’t think he’ll be able to get anything done with Harry watching him with those eyes and—

“Okay, fine, I’ll take Lou and Zayn out for a kickabout or something, yeah?” Harry reconsiders, closing his eyes.

“Thanks,” Michael mumbles against his shoulder.

“But I get to smudge paint on you some more when you’re done, right?”

Michael laughs. “Only if I get to smudge paint on you, too.”

*


End file.
